


Souvenir

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, The Academy Is...
Genre: Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Souvenir

Mike finds the t-shirt when he's cleaning out his garage. Endless boxes of crap, the stupid shit you picked up touring and couldn't remember why you ever wanted it in the first place. Most of it goes straight out to the dumpster, or into boxes to ship back to the guys if they answer his texts. But the t-shirt makes him stop for a minute, running the worn cotton between his fingers and then tracing the faded logo of a St. Louis club that's probably closed by now.

He remembers some parts of that night clearly, and others not at all, flashes of memory like strobe lights. Playing their set--it was a good show, he remembers that, remembers his guitar humming under his hands like it was coming alive, the way that only happens on really good nights--then drinks at the bar. Bill dumping beer all down his shirt and the bartender giving him this one as a freebie. Out in the parking lot, pushing Bill and Bill pushing back, spitting in his face, everything a mess of heat and adrenaline and something else he couldn't name at the time, not until the next part he remembers, the two of them sweaty and tangled together in the hotel bed, half kissing and half biting, hands fumbling everywhere and skin on fire.

There's no reason for him to wear the shirt to pick up Bill at the airport, but he does anyway, maybe just to see what will happen. He's not hoping for anything. Not testing. Just...curious. Poking Bill with a stick to see if he still responds the same way, to see if things have changed.

Nothing has, unless maybe--just _maybe_ \--they're slightly less stupid now, because it doesn't take too much beer and a fistfight to get them here, just what they had with dinner and Bill's crooked, half-smirking smile when they get back to the house, his slight head-tilt toward the bedroom, the way he reaches out and plucks lightly at the bar logo over Mike's chest. "Subtle," he says, tugging and then letting go, setting off down the hall without looking back. "I didn't think you knew how, Santi."

It's on the tip of Mike's tongue to say _bite me_ or _blow me_ but the moment's too charged for that; it would be too obvious. Instead he just follows, biting his lip to keep quiet and watching Bill's ass under his stupid jeans, not as tight as he used to wear them but still enough that Mike doesn't want to look away.

And then they're in Mike's bed, just as hot and tangled as that night however fucking long ago--four years? must be, at least, maybe more--and Bill is gasping, low and hot little noises that crawl under Mike's skin and get in his blood and shoot right down to his dick where it's rubbing against Bill's hip through the layers of jeans and boxers they both still have on for no fucking good reason. "Fuck," Bill mutters, his lips hot and wet against Mike's neck, his teeth scraping over the skin and leaving it feeling raw even though Mike knows he won't do enough to leave evidence in the morning. "Fuck, you know what I want. Come on."

Mike bites down on Bill's collarbone, hard enough that it _will_ leave evidence, a neat ring of teethmarks, and Bill shudders and jerks beneath him. " _Jesus_ ," he hisses through clenched teeth, and Mike laughs, not sounding like himself to his own ears as he pulls away and reaches for the stuff on the bedside table.

Bill turns onto his hands and knees, twisting the bedding between his fingers. His head bows, baring his spine all the way from his neck to his ass in a liquid curve that Mike swears hasn't changed since they were seventeen, and how is that, how the _fuck_ is that, when everything else has changed in the whole world, Bill's still the same, constant in all the ways that count.

He ducks his head to stifle his own sudden desperation, confused and out of place, tracing his tongue down Bill's back and then biting lightly, careful to just graze the pale skin this time, to use just barely enough pressure to make Bill's breath hitch.

"Mike," Bill says, his voice a choked mess, no music in it. "Please."

Mike kisses the base of his spine, where he knows sweat's going to pool before too long, where Bill's going to shake with tension. He slicks his fingers up, getting them coated well with lube before he presses against Bill's opening, rubbing slowly until he spreads his legs wider and then working the first finger inside.

Bill moans, like he always does, low and raw and not quite broken, and Mike doesn't wait for him to breathe again, just watches the quiver of muscles in his back. He adds a second finger, working against the tension in Bill's body until he's open enough for a third. Bill shakes as he takes that, sinking to rest his head on his crossed forearms. "Fuck, Mike, I..."

"Can you take it?" Mike kisses the sharp jut of Bill's hip and pushes his fingers deeper, flexing them a little until Bill gasps again. "Huh, Beckett?"

"Fuck you." Bill takes another breath and pushes back against him. "First time in how fucking long and you want to go all the way."

Mike rolls his eyes and slaps him on the thigh, curving his fingers inside Bill's body. "Only if you can take it."

Bill presses his face harder into his arms, another shiver running through him. "Just go slow, all right? _Slow_."

Mike nods and adds more lube to his hand, slicking his little finger before he works it inside, then going still and waiting for Bill's breath to even out again. He lowers his head and licks a bead of sweat off Bill's spine, tasting the salt and heat of him. "You can take it," he murmurs against Bill's skin. "I know you can. Ready?"

He can feel Bill's heart hammering through his whole body, and waits, counting the heartbeats until Bill gives a slight, jerky nod. "Move," Bill whispers, and Mike does, working his hand in and out slow and steady, over and over until Bill feels relaxed enough to take the rest. He pulls his hand back again, pressing his fingers into a wedge and tucking his thumb inside them before pushing into Bill again, even slower but relentlessly, steadily until he's wrist-deep and Bill's making these gasping, choking noises like he doesn't know if he's going to live or die.

It's insanely fucking hot, hearing Bill like this, out of his head and letting go of control, falling through sensation and trusting Mike to be the only thing that might catch him. It's almost too much for Mike to stand, and he presses the heel of his other hand against his own dick, telling himself to keep it together, that he can't risk losing control even a little bit until William's done.

"God," Bill says, almost a whimper, "so fucking..." He shifts his weight onto one arm, his forehead buried in the curve of his elbow, and reaches back with the other hand, fumbling clumsily at his cock before he gets his hand wrapped around it and strokes tight and fast and desperate. Mike moves his fist again inside him, filling him up as deep and solid as he can until Bill shudders and his hips jerk and he comes all over his hand and the bed.

Mike waits, holding himself still, his free hand still pressed against himself through his jeans. Bill's breath is still coming choked and fast, like he's overwhelmed to the point of breaking, and Mike has to wait for him to come back to earth before he moves.

"Fuck," Bill whispers, barely audible, but he nods, too, enough that Mike can believe he's ready. He eases his hand out slowly, grabbing a towel from the floor by the bed to wipe it clean before he fumbles his jeans open and gets his hand inside. He stays there on his knees, watching Bill lay in a tangle of sweaty limbs, his face still hidden against his arm and the blankets.

Mike wipes his hand on the towel when he's done and tosses it away, then lets himself collapse down on the bed next to Bill. He's vaguely aware, in a distant and fucked-out way, that he's still wearing that stupid t-shirt. Bill turns his head a little, squinting at him and then snorting a little half-laugh.

"What?" Mike asks, grabbing a pillow and slapping it down next to Bill's head, so he can look him in the face while lying down in comfort. "There's nothing funny about my game, Beckett."

"Not funny. I agree." Bill lifts his head a little and grabs the pillow, yanking it over so he can use half. "I was just thinking that I'm glad we didn't try that back then, or you probably would've killed me."

"We're not getting older, we're getting better," Mike says. "Hey, we should call the album that."

"You're an idiot." Bill shakes his head and moves closer, throwing his arm across Mike's chest. "How about we call the album _that_."  



End file.
